


Born to Follow

by SeraMGrigori



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Case Fic, Gen, Hunter Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Necromancy, Odin's Ravens, Post-Mark of Cain, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychic Violence, Rated For Violence, Rated for Hinted Abuse, Sam Winchester's Visions, Stanford Era, Team Free Will, The Darkness - Freeform, Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeraMGrigori/pseuds/SeraMGrigori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the same old story, ad eternum: Sam Winchester was plagued by visions from an unknown source. This time, however, it’s not the future that haunts his nightmares; it’s the months leading up to the time when he first betrayed his brother. </p><p>After the Mark of Cain is removed, Sam and Dean are closer than they’ve been in…what seems like eons. However, angels, necromancers, and ravens have a tendency to dredge up the past at the most inopportune times. With the Darkness running amuck, Sam, Dean, and Castiel all have to come to terms with consequences of the past in order to renew their faith in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man Who Mines for Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Summary: Sam receives a letter in the mail and wonders if he can ever escape his father's reach.

_South Sioux City, Nebraska_

_May 2001_

Sam was never much one for staring at the clock in school. School was his sanctuary, full of books and paper and cheerleaders rather than monsters and blood and holy water. Typically, he tended to linger around in order to avoid his obligatory extracurricular activities. Now, he found himself counting down the minutes until the final bell. He fidgeted in his stool at the lab table. Usually, his eyes would be glued to Ms. Bradly and her Erlenmeyer flask as she rattled on about nucleotides and the decay rate of certain elements on the periodic table. Fascinating stuff. Any other day, even though the class was eighth period and everyone else passed out as soon as they passed the threshold, she’d have Sam’s full attention. 

Somewhere in the last forty-five seconds, Sam’s ridiculously long leg began to shake uncontrollably. He hadn’t even bothered to take out his notes or his books or even put on his safety glasses. He figured that if he survived a basilisk’s venom to the face last fall with no long term effects other than one _bitch_ of a migraine, he didn’t much need to worry about the controlled chemicals of a high school lab blinding him or nothing.

Sam stared at the clock. One fucking minute.

Holy hell, had Dean been pissed that Sam let himself get sprayed by that thing. That’d lasted all of four seconds before his brother adopted the role of doctor, protector, and frantic avenger. He cringed at the memory of writhing on the bed with a skyrocketing fever as his big brother called their father, desperately searching for a cure. Three days later, when John came back and Sam’s fever had long since broken, the son of a bitch had ripped Dean one hell of a new one.

Sam felt Ms. Bradly’s curious gaze, wondering why her top student was staring at the clock and acting like someone had dropped a snake down his pants. He tuned her out and watched the final seconds tick down to the bell.

He shouldered his backpack and bolted a solid three seconds after the bell rang, ignoring Ms. Bradly calling after him. He’d make it up to her later. Probably some stupid shit like handing her an apple that Dean would tease him about for weeks if he knew. Right now, he needed to be home.

More importantly, he needed to beat Dean home.

Sam kept his eyes fixed on the sidewalk all the entire fifteen-minute walk downtown to the shitty apartment complex they’d been staying at the past six months. Besides the Impala, which now belonged only to Dean as of his brother’s eighteenth birthday, this shithole was probably the most permanent place they’d stayed for as long as he could remember. (‘Sides Bobby’s, of course.)

God, he still had the bitter taste of that fight in his mouth. John had wanted to keep moving, keep hunting, like he always did. This time, Sam dug his feet in. He was already graduating a year late because of how often they left without enough notice for his transcripts to properly transfer. Just one more fucking year he had to spend with his father and his stupid crusade. Sam was sick of it. John’d been half-drunk when Sam brought it up; he’d come to find that although John was more likely to throw a punch when he was drunk, it was always the best time to pick a fight because at least they were uncoordinated.

_We’re getting close. So fucking close_ , John swore. Bullshit. They were never any closer.

_We have to keep movin’, Sammy. It ain’t safe._

_What the fuck do you need a diploma for anyway? Dean doesn’t have one._ Sam had to bite his tongue. Dean didn’t want one. Dean didn’t plan on leaving. Dean obeyed orders. Dean was a good son. Sam had been looking for the exit ramp since his big brother taught him to load rock salt into a shotgun.

_Where do you expect to find the fuckin’ money, Sammy?_

That’s when Dean’d jumped in. He’d shoved Sam aside and slammed a wad of cash on the table in front of their father, nearly knocking over the whiskey bottle. _There’s your fucking money. Let him finish school_. Sam had registered his jaw dropping as he stared at his brother. That was…Dean’s stash of hard-earned, honest-to-God cash. Sam knew he’d been saving for something. At first, he’d thought maybe it’d been a ring for Cassie—that maybe his brother planned on telling their father to stick it where the sun don’t shine in favor of a normal life—but they’d left Ohio months ago. That dream of his brother’s happiness was no longer visible in the rearview mirror. Now, maybe just parts for the Impala or a trip to Vegas on his birthday. God knows what that money had been for, but it was Dean’s and he’d given it over for Sam.

John had been too drunk to properly comprehend that his perfect soldier had suddenly found his own voice. He’d blinked a few times and nodded. In the morning, he’d been hung-over and pissed, but bound by his word. They’d found this place a few days later. Rent was cheap and South Sioux City was perfectly situated between Bobby’s and Pastor Jim’s. Dean could keep up with the payments working a job as a mechanic and hustling the rest while John could continue to hunt. And Sam got to finish school.

“Hey, Mr. Mason,” Sam said to the stout man behind the counter of the leasing office. Even with the permanent slouch with which he carried himself, Sam towered over the manager of the apartment complex.

Mr. Mason grunted a reply and adjusted his belt beneath his beer belly. Sam tried not to grimace and took in the clinging odor of sweat mixed with cheap cigars. “Rent’s late.”

“I know,” Sam replied, shifting his backpack to his other shoulder. It was always late.  “My brother gets paid tomorrow.”

Mr. Mason scratched his beer belly and didn’t bat an eye. “Your daddy gonna be around any time soon?”

_Yeah, in about two hours_. “Yes, sir,” Sam managed.

Mr. Mason let out a rackety cough. “Gah. Neighbors complained last time he came ‘round. Tell him to keep a lid on it.”

Last time John came around was on Sam’s birthday. His father was never much a happy camper on his birthday. Dean always said it reminded him too much of Mary. This year was no different. He was miraculously sober, but he was looking for a fight. Sam’s SAT scores had been sitting on the table between the milkshakes and home-cooked cherry pie Dean had picked up on his way home from the shop. Of course, John didn’t notice the perfect score. Or if he did, he didn’t give a flying fuck. He saw it for what it was: Sam’s one-way ticket away from their goddamned life.

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, the image of Dean’s shiner still fresh in his mind. Naturally, Dean had taken the punch for him before shoving their father out of the room. _I’m the one who paid for the fucking test, Dad!_ Then he sauntered back to the table, all savvy dispositions and bowlegs, and flashed that stupid grin that wasn’t even marred by the lump on the side of his face.

_Happy Nineteenth, Sammy. Sorry I didn’t buy you a beer_. _Maybe next time._

“What do you want, boy?” Mr. Mason snapped, shaking Sam from his perfect home life.

“Has the mail come in yet?” Sam held his breath. This was the last day it could come. Otherwise his dad would find it and there’d be no end to it. He wasn’t gonna make the same mistake twice. He had no plans of showing this one to Dean or letting their father get a hold of it. It was best for all of them. His big brother couldn’t take their father’s punches forever.

Mr. Mason sighed and reached behind the counter. “Yeah, yeah.” He pulled out a crisp, white envelope and inspected the name. “The hell does Stanford want with a rat like you? They lookin’ to hire a janitor?”

Sam’s eyes went wide and his breath caught in his throat. Holy shit. He could count the number of times his luck panned out on one hand. Sam took the letter from Mr. Mason’s grubby hands, ignored whatever else he said, and took the stairs two at a time.

His backpack ended up in a corner as Sam melted into the dining room chair, staring slack-jawed at the letter. He glanced up at the clock. Dean would be home in less than fifteen minutes. He couldn’t know about this, not after how John reacted to the SAT scores. Dean didn’t even know he’d applied to Stanford. College, sure. Sam knew his brother took great pride in him. But Dean wasn’t stupid either. Sam was sure Dean knew all about his plan that’d been festering in the back of his mind for _years_. The one about leaving and never coming back. The one that filled Dean’s eyes with dread every time Sam left the room.

Sam wasn’t entirely sure his brother would survive this kind of news. He didn’t know if he had it in him to say goodbye to Dean. It was better this way, if Dean didn’t know. It broke Sam’s heart, but it was best.

Dean would give him such shit if he knew he just thought that. Didn’t make it any less true.

Besides, whatever the contents of the letter, that was still months away. He still had a summer with his brother. They’d head out of South Sioux City right after Sam graduated in a week. They needed a break, just the two of them. Dean’s been so busy with work and Sam with school that they hardly have time to be brothers these days. It weighs on heavily on both of them. That was the one stupid thing that Sam knew he’d miss about hunting: riding shotgun in the Impala, listening to Dean’s outdated mullet rock, and counting off the miles knowing his brother is right there with him.

Maybe he could convince Dean to head south for the summer. There’s always shit happening and Confederate ghosts to torch down there. If his luck held out, maybe, come September, Sam could convince Dean to take him to California. Maybe even drop him off at school.

Sam shook his head. That was never going to happen. Not if John Winchester had anything to say about it.

He turned the letter over in his hand and traced the Stanford insignia. His name was printed in the deep, black cursive of a formal invitation. Glancing at the clock once more, he tore it open.

_Congratulations. You have been accepted…_

Sam didn’t read any more. Just breathed a sigh of relief and thanked whatever particular deity that might be responsible for this miracle. A second sheet of paper fell out of the envelope. Sam’s breath caught, waiting for the “Just kidding, you’re stuck with me” note from John.

_Dear Mr. Winchester,_

_Because of your outstanding academic credentials and exemplary recommendations, it is my pleasure to award you with the dean’s list academic scholarship…_

His jaw dropped. Sam blinked and read the letter three more times, just to be sure he wasn’t imagining things. Part of him wanted to pull out the small silver knife in his boot and prick his finger just to be sure that he wasn’t under the influence of a djinn. When the words didn’t morph and the room stayed where it was supposed to, Sam let out a small, gurgling laugh.

A full ride. He had a full ride to Stanford. A full ride…God, that meant Sam didn’t have to bother with the money. He’d known Stanford wasn’t exactly cheap when he’d applied and had hoped for some sort of scholarship, but a full ride…That meant all he had were living expenses, which he could easily take care of on his own. John didn’t have to pay a goddamned cent and Dean wouldn’t have to slave away under the hood of cars just so his kid brother could go to school. Sam knew he’d never have won that argument.

Now…he got there on his own. He didn’t need his father’s money or his brother’s unconditional slavery to make it through school. He was free. This was proof he could take care of himself.

He almost picked up the phone to call Dean, even though he’d be home any minute, before he remembered. Dean couldn’t know. Not right now. Not if he was going to spare him from his father’s wrath. 

Not when that scholarship completely solidified Sam’s plans to leave everything behind. The hunting, the guns, the machetes, and the bloodstained clothes…come September, it’d all disappear from his life. He was going to _law school_. Sam Winchester was going to make something of his life. John didn’t need to know a damn thing about it until after he was gone.

Maybe it was best Dean didn’t either, for his own sake. They always say ignorance is bliss. If Dean doesn’t know anything, John can’t blame him for Sam leaving. Already, that was eating away at his soul. This wasn’t something he wanted to keep from Dean. Not when his brother’d given so much for him already. This was supposed to be a triumph and Sam wanted to share it with his big brother.

But he couldn’t, not with the long arm of John Winchester looming over the both of them. Come September, he’d call Dean once he got to California. Explain things in his own words and hope he doesn’t break down. Hope is brother respects his choice and doesn’t come to pick him up in the Impala. Or worse, send John after him.

No. Dean would never do that. Not after everything. He’d be okay. He’d move on, bottle it up, continue hunting, and if Sam was lucky enough, stop by to visit once in a while. That was the life and times of Dean Winchester. That’s how it had to be.

Least he still had the summer.

The knob on the front door rattled. Sam sat bolt upright in his chair and scrambled to fold the two letters back into the envelope. He barely had time to shove the letter in his bag before his brother walked through the door.

Dean was still wearing his jumpsuit from the garage. He smelled like sweat and had a grease stain smeared just above his eyebrow. “The hell was that?” he said, strolling into the room, gesturing to Sam’s suspiciously innocent face. “Your _Playgirl_ subscription finally come in the mail?”

“No, I…uh. Nothing. It’s nothing.” _Real convincing, Sam._

Dean grabbed a beer from the fridge before leaning against the counter to look incredulously at Sam. “Uh-huh. What’s that envelope you just put in your bag?”

Damn his stupid nosy brother. “It’s nothing.”

“Aw, come on, Sammy.” Dean took a step forward, making a grab for Sam’s backpack.

Sam snatched the backpack out of his reach and held it against his chest. “It’s a letter,” he said, glaring at Dean. “Uh…from a girl.” Sam knew he tended to fidget when he lied and hoped his brother chalked it up to embarrassment.

Dean took the bait and flashed his signature smirk that made every girl within a two-block radius want to drop her panties. Sam just rolled his eyes. “Well, look at you, Sammy. Leavin’ a trail of hearts all across the Midwest. Did you use protection?”

Sam groaned and put his head in his hands. “It’s not…God, Dean, you’re impossible.”

Raising his bottle in mock salute, Dean laughed. “So,” he prompted after taking a swig. “Who was she?”

Of course Dean wasn’t going to drop it. “First, promise you’ll never read it.”

“Sam, I would never…” His voice trailed off at Sam’s glare. “Fine,” Dean said. “Cross my heart.” He made the motion with his free hand.

One problem solved. One convincing lie to sell. “Rachel Nave.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “The one with the…?” He pantomimed groping her breasts. “And the…hm.”

Sam was rather enjoying watching his brother squirm. “That’s the one.”

“Your prom date?” His brother’s voice his a note Sam formerly associated with helium abuse.

He nodded and couldn’t hold back a smile, even if it was a lie. Rachel hadn’t spoken to him since she’d climbed out of the backseat of the Impala.

Dean shifted on his feet. “You know, Sammy, whatever you think you saw that night… Only, like, thirty percent of it was my idea.”

Sam scoffed. “Really? Thirty percent?”

“Uh-huh.” Dean took a swig of beer and wouldn’t look at him. “It was hardly consensual at all, really.”

“I’m sure. You were an innocent victim.” Sam ducked his head to hide his smirk.

“Damn straight.”

Sam wasn’t even all that mad his brother’d hooked up with his prom date. He half suspected the only reason she went with him in the first place was because she had her eyes set on Dean. That’s the way it worked when one stood in the general vicinity of Dean Winchester.

And, okay, maybe Sam didn’t care all that much because he’d gone into the dance without Rachel. About halfway through, Carly Oswald—who was second in the class, only behind him—had come up and kissed him right on the mouth. Her date had dumped her for the fucking prom queen and what the hell, maybe Carly was more of Sam’s type anyway. So he danced with her all night and when the last song ended, he politely kissed her goodnight before he went out to the lot to see Rachel climbing out of the Impala. Dean was in the driver’s seat with that stupid-as-all-fuck grin on his face.

Hell, Sam had just rolled his eyes and climbed in the passenger’s seat, ensuring it was sanitary before he sat down. He didn’t say a word about Carly. Dean would only laugh and ask if they did it under the bleachers. Where she ranked on a scale of one to Sarah Michelle Gellar. He wouldn’t care that Sammy actually liked her and maybe didn’t just want to sleep with her and then leave in a month. Dean could play the Captain Kirk card—a new girl for every new planet—but it was never really Sam’s playing field. Sam always liked Captain Picard better anyways.

Some things, Sam knew his brother would never understand.

When John opened the door two hours later, the Winchester half of Sam desperately wanted to wave the letter in his face and declare his independence. Walk out the door and never come back.

But Dean wouldn’t understand and Dean would not come with him. Not in a thousand lifetimes. So Sam kept his mouth closed and bowed his head when John started barking orders. They were heading to New Hampshire the moment Sam graduated next week. Something about a poltergeist.

It was better Dean didn’t know. Sam’d be out of here come September and then it’d all be over. The salt lines, the silver bullets, the nights camped out in the back of the Impala. He’d trade it all for a normal, apple pie life. And what the hell. He’d rip the Band-Aid off and refuse to look at the scar.

Dean would move on. Find a new planet, find a new girl. Find a new reason for waking up in the morning. It’d work out. It had to.

At least he had the summer.


	2. The Ones in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean get a call from Castiel, who has his hands full with a rather peculiar case.

_Lebanon, Kansas_

_2015_

 

Someone was blasting “Eye of the Tiger.”

Sam jolted into consciousness, swearing death and destruction on the whomever who caused the disturbance, even if he had to hunt down the remaining members of Survivor himself. 

The cement ceiling of the bunker swam with memories as Sam’s eyes flew open. Rubbing the sand out of his eyes and rolling over, Sam reached for his phone and silenced the alarm.

Five A.M.

 _Dammit, Dean_ , Sam swore, trying to figure out when his brother might have had the opportunity to change his alarm.

He rolled onto his back and draped his arm over his forehead, the on-set of a migraine itching the edges of his consciousness. It had all the trappings of a pretty nasty one, like the ones he used to get before he had a vision. He hadn’t had one since before the Trials. Years before the Cage, before Lucifer, before Ruby and the demon blood. Before his brother went to hell.

Sam took a breath and began the ritual. The only one that ever worked to banish the pain in his head.

_Mom. Jessica. (Goddammit, that still hurt.) Dad. Madison. Ash. Cold Oak. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. One hundred fucking times. Pamela. Cas. Ellen. Jo. Adam. Cas. Gabriel. Stull Cemetery. Cas. Rufus. Bobby. Cas and Dean. Kevin. Dean._

_Charlie._

Fuck, that one hurt more than any migraine dared.

Sam swallowed and forced his litany of the dead to the corner of his mind. He’d never get out of bed if he allowed himself to dwell on it too long. Although the perfect remedy to any sort of physical pain, the dead were best kept in their graves. Sam, of all people, should know.

He was a Winchester, after all.

Letting out a groan, Sam sat up in bed and nearly flopped back again, overwhelmed with the head-rush. Flashes from his sleep leaked into his vision behind his eyelids. For a second, he was terrified he’d see _him_ again, but then Sam blinked. Everything remained PG and Satan-free. Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

Had he really been dreaming about the summer before Stanford? The hell did that come from?

 _Doesn’t matter_ , he thought. At the same time, the fleeting notion that it could be another vision from the Divine flashed across the recesses of his mind. But this…felt different. It’d been a long time since Sam had had a dream that hadn’t morphed into the nightmares he lived in the waking world, but he knew this wasn’t a vision. 

It wasn’t exactly his favorite memory either. So much had happened, so many people had died, since Sam’s heaven was someone else’s Thanksgiving and running away from his family. The accusation and betrayal on Dean’s face had been enough to turn his heaven into hell.

(Dean had died twice since Sam Winchester had been to heaven. Funny how he’d taken to measuring time.)

Things were different now. He wasn’t the same kid who hid that stupid letter in his bag for a summer. Who let his older brother bear the weight of the world for him. No, somewhere along the line, and despite his brother’s protestations, Sam Winchester grew up.

That certainly didn’t mean Sam was above killing his brother for changing his fucking alarm.

Dean’s door was open as Sam made his way down the hall, his bare feet noiseless against the cement. His brother’s bed was still made and everything seemed to be in order. That was odd. Dean usually preferred his beauty sleep in the mornings.

Sam knew Dean hadn’t left the bunker. Even this far underground, through so many layers of concrete, warding magic, and insulation, Sam could hear the Impala’s engine starting up no matter what. He knew that sound better than his own heartbeat. That damn car acted as a lifeline for the two brothers. At this point, Sam was almost convinced he’d _feel it_ if it had left without his knowledge.

Next guess? Dean was nursing his post-Mark-of-Cain, general disposition towards sleeplessness with a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

Sam could smell it down the hall and berated himself for not checking there first.

“ _Rising up! Straight to the top!”_ Dean sang as he entered the kitchen, using his mug as an impromptu microphone.

“I hate you,” Sam laughed, grabbing a mug for himself. The black liquid was thicker than he normally liked it and strong, judging by the scent. Hell, his brother needed something other than alcohol every once in a while. That didn’t mean it had to be any less bitter.

“No, you really don’t,” Dean sing-songed as Sam sat down on the stool across from him.

 _No, I really don’t._ “There a reason you’re up?” Sam asked, taking a sip of his coffee. Instantly, he pulled a face and forced the sludge down.

Dean flashed his Oscar-nominated smirk. “Sure ain’t the prissy stuff you like, huh, Sammy?”

Sam wiped his mouth and frowned at the offending liquid. “Dean, I don’t think that’s all coffee. What the hell’d you put in that?”

Dean shrugged. “Beer.”

Sam opened and closed his mouth. “ _Beer_?” So much for no alcohol.

“We’re out of whiskey, by the way. Couldn’t make it properly Irish. Now we’re out of beer, too.”

_Jesus Christ, Dean._

Sam sighed and somberly marched over to the sink to dump his out. He looked mournfully at the coffeepot. “Did you have to pour it in the whole pot? Some of us don’t appreciate unholy concoctions of alcohol before breakfast.”

“Nonsense. You’re a Winchester,” Dean said, slamming his mug down on the table to drive the point home. Cue that damn smirk. “’Sides, I didn’t pour it in. I brewed it.”

Sam turned on his heel. “You brewed it?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“With beer?”

“You lose your hearing or something, Sammy?”

“We run out of water, Dean?” Sam shot back, gesturing pointlessly at the perfectly functioning sink.

Dean feigned innocence. “No.” He looked his younger brother up and down, taking in Sam’s unruly hair. “You sleep well, Sammy? You were pretty out of it when I came in and set your alarm. Happy dream?”

Sam sat back down across from his brother. “You changed my alarm? While I was asleep?”

“Getting complacent in your old age, little brother.”

Sam laughed. “Hey, you still got four years on me, old man.” He couldn’t hold in another laugh under his breath at Dean’s offended expression. “You never answered. There a reason you’re up and drinking beer-coffee?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Wanted company.” Sam nodded, understanding, all prior thoughts of murdering Dean out of his head. His brother was insufferable, but Sam didn’t have it in him to be mad. Spending time with Dean in the bunker had become a staple to their combined mental stability.

His brother looked down and Sam sighed. Time for the alcoholic elephant in the room. “Dean, if this is about the Darkness— “

“Sam,” Dean warned. “’S too fucking early.”

Reluctantly, he nodded. They’d have to sort that out at some time or another, but Dean was right. Right now, it was too early and Sam didn’t have any goddamned coffee in his system. Perfect time to ignore the sense of impending doom and just be there with his brother. After everything—the Mark, the angels, Crowley’s summer of love, Sam’s visions of the Cage—it was enough to simply be brothers again.

“Heard from Cas?” Sam ventured, judging their occasionally-resident angel to be a much safer topic.

Dean shook his head and took another drink of his beer-coffee sludge. Sam was mildly impressed Dean was able to keep a straight face while swallowing the stuff. “No. Not since he set out in search for the Darkness. He’s having just about as much luck as we are.”

The opening notes of “Smoke on the Water” blared from Dean’s phone and Sam felt his stomach drop. Some moron was calling with the monster of the week and interrupting his perfect, beer-coffee, “Eye of the Tiger” morning with Dean. It wasn’t fair. Dean seemed to think so as well, letting out a groan and setting his mug aside. Pulling it from the pocket of his jeans and looking at the caller ID, Dean shot a glance at his brother. “Speak of the devil.”

Sam fucking _loathed_ that expression.

“Hey, Cas, you’re on speaker,” Dean said, setting his phone down on the table between them.

“ _Hello, Dean. Wait…why are you awake?”_

Sam snorted, glad that at least it was Cas instead of some other hunter calling with a name, number, and nightmare. Cas was one of them. He might as well be a Winchester, by Sam’s count. It was always refreshing to hear the angel (more or less) looking out for Dean, even though Dean hated it when anyone, angelic or otherwise, tried to play mother hen.

“You’re the one calling me, genius,” Dean replied, rolling his eyes.

“ _Yes, but…_ ” Castiel’s voice trailed off into what Sam believed to be a cough. “ _I expected to leave a voicemail._ ”

“Finally figured that out, huh?”

This time, Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean couldn’t sleep, Cas. So we’re up.”

Dean shot him the particular death glare he’d perfected after he’d returned from Purgatory and had had nothing better to do than blame Sam for not searching for him. ( _Fuck, that still burned.)_ “Bitch,” Dean grumbled.

 _Jerk,_ Sam mouthed back.

“ _Dean, if you’re experiencing nightmares as a result of the Mark of Cain— “_

“I’m fine, Cas,” he snapped. _This is your fucking fault!_ he mouthed at Sam.

Sam smirked, glad Cas was able to put the pieces together. Sometimes, he thought, Dean needed to be reminded just how much him and Cas cared. Even if his brother chalked it all up to a chick flick moment from a house of pansies.

“ _Dean— “_

“It’s alright, Cas,” Sam interjected. They’d be here until next month if Cas persisted enough to get Dean to talk about whatever was keeping him from sleeping. “I’m watching him.”

Dean flipped him off.

Cas mulled it over and conceded. “ _Alright.”_

“What have you got for us?” Duty called.

Castiel let out a breath on the other end of the line. “ _I’m in Twin Falls, Idaho_ — “

Time froze in that deafening silence that existed only in perpetual limbo the second after an atomic bomb hits ground zero.

Sam’s blood turned to ice and he stopped listening, his gaze locked with his brother’s across the table. Dean was equally frozen. Neither Winchester dared to breathe and Cas’s voice faded to background noise as their world caved in on them.

Of all the places on the goddamned planet, why’d Cas have to find that one? Almost fifteen years, neither of them had spoken about it or driven through it. They keep it at a fifty-mile radius just to be sure every time they drove through Idaho. That place was more cursed and as heavy with memories than any graveyard or devil’s gate. Everything went unsaid and, _God_ , the Winchesters were experts on burying the past under layers and layers of scars and repercussions.

Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat as his eyes moved from his brother’s. Dean was rigid. Sam could almost see that night replaying itself over and over, blow for blow, in Dean’s otherwise intimidating eyes. Now, he looked like a little kid again, far younger than he’d been that night.

No chance in hell that Dean didn’t remember. It wasn’t exactly something he was likely to forget.

“ _Dean? Sam? What’s wrong?”_

Cas’s voice snapped both of them back to the present. Dean sat up straight, now refusing to look at Sam. He ran a hand through his hair as Sam took up a sudden fascination with the floor.

“Yeah, Cas, we’re here,” Dean said, his voice noticeably strained. “Tell us what’s going on.”

Castiel had every right to be as confused as hell. “ _I…I just did. Can you hear me alright?_ ”

Dean sighed and glared at his phone. “You’ll have to run it by us again, Cas.”

“ _Is everything alright?_ ”

 _Fuck, no._ “We’re fine, Cas,” Sam managed, wishing his voice didn’t sound as defeated as it did.

“ _Um…okay. I was following the unusual deaths in the area. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Two deaths in the past week due to asphyxiation, a an odd string of suicides…but then. I’m at the crime scene now. The victim’s eyes were burned out_ — “

“Angel kill?” Dean supplies, his dead gaze locked straight ahead.

“ _No,”_ Cas replied, with a hint of annoyance at the interruption. “ _His ribs were splayed open and…a black feather in the chest cavity.”_

“So, what then?” Dean asked, his own annoyance spiking. “Get to the point, Cas.”

The angel huffed. “ _Ritualistic sacrifice, but I can’t be sure. This many deaths in the area, it could be any number of— “_

“Great,” Dean cut in again. “We need to take a rain check on this one, Cas.”

Sam’s gaze shot up to him in surprise, but his brother still would not look at him.

“ _What? Dean— “_

“Sounds like a cut and dry witch-hunt, Cas. Believe me, you can handle it. Sam and I…our time is best spent looking for leads on Amara.”

Bullshit. They hadn’t had a lead on Amara in weeks. But the darker side of Sam knew exactly which nightmare Dean was trying to avoid.

“ _Dean, listen to me. There’s a spell book here that’s warded against angels. I can’t hunt a witch unless I can get close to her. Assuming that her_ spell book _is warded, it’s not that far of a leap to guess she’s warded her home or…Or she knows enough about angels to put me under her spell.”_ The _again_ hangs dangerously in the air between them. “ _I need your help with this._ ”

Dean was silent for longer than Sam cared to count, his arms crossed over his chest and the mask of death covering his features. “Then call someone else.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest—it was their duty, their obligation, saving people, hunting things—but his brother’s death glare snapped to him, a fair warning for anyone who dared cross him. Sam shut his mouth and slouched again, thinking maybe Dean was right. Maybe they needed to stay out of this one.

God, they’d just started to be brothers again.

“ _Everyone else is dead, Dean._ ”

On instinct, Sam started the litany in his head again. _Mom, Jess. (Fuck!) Dad. Madison. Ash. Cold Oak. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean…_

God, Sam couldn’t lose his brother again. Not now. Not after everything.

The past always came to bite him in the ass at the most inopportune times. This one in particular was a long time in the making.

Dean fidgeted, his voice a half-step lower than normal. “Look, Cas, I’m sorry, but we can’t. Sam and I…Not this time, buddy.”

Sam prayed to the God whose favor he may or may not have earned… _Please, for the love of all that is holy, just let this go away._

Cas took in a breath and let out a heavy sigh. Sam’s hope shattered and his heart sank as he put it together. Angel of the Lord, Divine Revelation, Chuck’s godforsaken books…it didn’t matter. Cas fucking _knew._ “ _If this is because Twin Falls is— “_

_Don’t say it. Please don’t fucking say it._

“— _where Sam left for Stanford…”_

Dean slammed the palm of his hand on the table and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. “God-fucking-dammit, Cas!”

“ _Dean, I…”_ The angel’s voice trailed off and Sam imagined he was rather confused by the outburst, regardless of whether or not he knew its source. Cas wasn’t _there_. He might have read about it or however the hell he knew…but he didn’t know just how bad it got.

How the fuck did that ever make it into his heaven? What kind of selfish bastard did that make him?

Sam composed himself. There was no avoiding this now. Not when Cas called Dean’s bluff. “It’s alright, Cas.” Dean shot him a look that read, _Like hell, it is!_ “We’ll be there late tonight.”

Without another word, Sam ended the call.

The heartbeats hung between them and Sam couldn’t find the will to breathe. Not if it still hurt so goddamned much. Not if it meant Dean was still this angry, fifteen years later.

Dean stood slowly, and Sam decided that _angry_ was no longer an applicable term.

His brother was _livid_.

“ _Fuck_!” Dean’s coffee mug flew across the kitchen and shattered against the wall, the trail of black sludge dripping from where it hit. This time, Sam didn’t flinch. Instead, he slumped his shoulders and cursed his height, not for the first time in his life.

In retrospect, Sam Winchester would give almost anything to undo that night in Twin Falls, Idaho. He was well aware of the repercussions of a statement such as that, but if it meant him and Dean could continue to pretend it didn’t happen…then hell, it might just be worth it. After everything, with everything hanging over their heads…fuck, Sam couldn’t lose his brother now.

Not over this damn scar that festered and never healed.

Not when Sam couldn’t even begin to find the words for an apology. Not when it was fifteen years too late.

“Get your damn stuff,” Dean ordered, clenching his fists, again refusing to look at Sam. “We’re leaving in ten.”

Sam nodded and wished his brother hadn’t used the last of their supply of alcohol to make his goddamned coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Week: The Winchesters, a 1967 Impala, and an elephant in the room. Plus an angel and a flayed body, just for kicks.

**Author's Note:**

> Ongoing, case-fic updated weekly. Thanks for reading and feedback is always welcome!


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